


The Dark and the Flame

by QueenForADay



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Cuddling & Snuggling, Established Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Fluff, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Takes Care of Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Sleepy Cuddles, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Soft Jaskier | Dandelion, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings, Winter At Kaer Morhen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:40:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28285614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenForADay/pseuds/QueenForADay
Summary: Geralt and Jaskier return to Kaer Morhen for the winter, and Jaskier falls into his usual role of Make Sure The Witcher Gets His Rest.--A Witcher Secret Santa Gift!
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 26
Kudos: 196
Collections: The Witcher Secret Santa 2020





	The Dark and the Flame

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BurningShroud](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BurningShroud/gifts).



> A Witcher Secret Santa gift for tumblr user @inikokoru! Happy holidays x

Kaer Morhen seems like a world away. Perched on top of a mountain peak, backed up against the stone and shrouded in a thick forest, curious eyes aren’t able to follow them up the steep sloping trails. The last humans Jaskier will see for the winter are in the village at the foot of the mountain; the last place where they can get provisions for the trails and the keep itself. Geralt picks up some dried beef and a loaf of bread, and Jaskier re-furs his cloak. It’s going to be a harsh winter, if he goes by how wonderful of a summer they had this year. An old peasant’s saying; a harsh summer, an equally harsh winter.

The paths aren’t terrible. Some of them are flooded, but Geralt nods for him to get on to Roach while the Witcher guides them through on foot. He’s been up and down this mountain ever since he first set off to be a Witcher; he knows where to step and where to avoid. Still, Jaskier bundles his cloak around himself and wishes that time would trudge by just that bit quicker. A storm will roll in soon enough. Blackened and heavy clouds slump over a nearby ridge.

They reach the walls of the keep just as the first drops of rain hit.

A winter at the keep means rest for everyone, including the horses. They stay in their stables and munch on stored hay and rolled oats, happy to be tackless for the season. With how much they’ve travelled throughout the year, and all of the monsters Geralt has hunted, Roach deserves her rest more than most.

Jaskier has been to the keep before. The first winter was spent stuck to Geralt’s side, shadowing him around as the Witcher showed him where to go for what. The keep sprawls out in every sort of direction, even delving deep into the mountain itself. A few sun-turns have passed. He knows where to go to get to Geralt’s room, the hot springs underneath the keep, Vesemir’s library, and the arena and stables outside. Other than that, he’s afraid of wandering off of his usual track because he’ll only get lost.

Vesemir allows his pups the first few days to rest. His sons have spent the last three seasons trudging through the Continent, wandering from contract to contract and collecting more injuries starts to take its toll. Jaskier can’t complain. The worst he’s dealt with this year is bartering with angry villagers not wanting to pay the Witcher for his service in clearing out a whole nekker nest. He still can’t remember what happened; just that someone with something knocked the back of his head, he fell to the ground, and woke up in a tavern bed almost ten hours later to a distraught, but furious, Witcher watching over him.

So he’s content to let Geralt relax into the keep, do whatever he needs to do to gain life back into his bones. Sleep evades him some nights, while others are spent working and then travelling the next day. He’s owed sleep. Within the first few minutes of being inside of the keep, Jaskier shepherds Geralt to his room. “Take off your armour and let me get you some clean clothes,” he says, letting the door click shut behind them.

Geralt arches an eyebrow at the command, but follows it anyway.

Jaskier listens to the tell-tale sounds of Geralt undoing the buckles and straps of his armour. Most of it is unceremoniously dumped into a corner of the room. He’s meticulously careful with caring for it and mending it whenever he can during the year. But here, safe behind high and study walls, there’s no need for it, and it will be put away until the day comes where the snow thaws and the sun returns. When he’s stripped down to nothing but an undershirt and breeches, Geralt perches at the foot of his bed and picks at the laces of his boots.

Vesemir won’t have anything ready for them to eat just yet. His stews and soups and roasts take up most of the day to prepare and simmer, and they’re _good_. Jaskier’s stomach growls at the thought of a warm bowl of stew or a few thick slices of roasted venison waiting for him down in the dining hall. But not yet. Now, he pads back over to Geralt, handing him some folded, fresh clothes and a handful of vials of lotions and soaps. “Go down to the baths and get the road off of you,” he instructs simply. “I’ll air the room and get the fire started.”

Geralt looks too exhausted to go down to the dining hall and try and hold air with Vesemir and the others. Though, Jaskier suspects that the elder might understand that he could be dining alone tonight, seeing how exhausted his sons were when they trudged one by one into the keep’s main hall, road-weary and worn.

Geralt hums, clambering on to his feet. Bare-foot, he pads down the halls towards the springs. Really, Jaskier could have had a tub sourced from somewhere; but he looks around the room and sees all the work he needs to do to get it ready. He starts with airing the room, cracking the lancet windows open just a little bit to let fresh, crisp air inside. It doesn’t take long for musky, dust-riddled air to be swept out. He closes them when the air turns just a small bit cold, nipping at his skin. The hearth next. A metal bucket of chopped wood sits by the hearth. _Vesemir_ , Jaskier thinks. The sheets on the bed are new, and Geralt has some newly washed clothes already within his drawers. Even now, with his pups fully grown and waning in years, Vesemir will still look after them.

Jaskier makes quick work of sparking the fire to life. He feeds the fire with two small, dry logs before his ears twitch at a knock on the door. Eskel and Lambert will have already retired to their own rooms. Jaskier saw the shadows gaunting their faces. He strides over to the door, blinking when he sees Vesemir standing outside with a tray in his hands.

Two piping bowls of stew, a loaf of crusted bread, a small wedge of cheese, and a bottle of wine with tankards. Jaskier blinks.

“I thought that you might have wanted to relax on your first night here,” Vesemir explains, holding out the tray. It’s heavy and laden with everything they could love. His stomach trembles at the sight of the food. Full meals were few and far between out on the road; unless they were lucky enough to stumble on a contract from a kind enough lord or lady, then their banquet table was splayed open for them. And Vesemir’s meals always hold a special place in his heart. Jaskier catches the scent of roasted herbs and his mouth waters.

Vesemir offers him one of his barely-there smiles, nothing more than a lift of the corner of his lip. “Have a good night, bard.”

By the time Geralt pads back, Jaskier smiles. His Witcher is flushed red from the hot water, smelling of the oils and lotions Jaskier likes to bathe him in. In fresh clothes and bare feet, he struggles to find any reason why anyone in the Continent would ever be afraid of the Witcher. White, wet hair tumbles down on to his shoulders, slack and relaxed as he shuffles over to a small desk near Jaskier. He holds out a fine-toothed comb. And Jaskier’s smile only grows.

Geralt wordlessly sits on a chair in front of him, sighing contently at the first pass of Jaskier’s fingers through his hair. If he had to bathe alone, without Jaskier’s hands dusting over his skin, then he can get the bard to at least comb through his hair. It was a slow process, getting Geralt used to the perfumed lotions and oils and soaps Jaskier likes to use. He remembers when Geralt’s nose would wrinkle at the sharp scent of citrus fruits or the musk of desert flowers. But slowly, when they started lying in the same bed, entangled in each other, Jaskier woke up to the Witcher’s nose pressed into the groove of his neck, breathing in lungfuls of scent.

The hearth crackles to life, heat slowly blooming out into the room. Geralt hums. “Vesemir dropped that up, did he?” he nods to the tray sitting nearby.

Jaskier runs the comb through Geralt’s hair. “Hmm. We can eat after I’m finished.”

Geralt sits patiently, almost slumbering as he leans back against Jaskier and sinks against him.

The bard huffs a light laugh. With the last of Geralt’s hair combed through, he nudges the Witcher’s shoulder. “Eat,” he says, setting his comb on to the table, and bringing over a chair. The meal is everything he needed it to be and more. The first spoonful of thick stew has him swallowing down a moan. He’s missed this; familiar, good home-cooked food that has his toes curling in his boots. The fire crackles nearby and the storm threatening to spill over outside is long forgotten about.

Geralt keeps his tankard filled with wine. As soon as it slips beneath the half-way mark, the Witcher reaches over with the bottle and tops it up. Jaskier chuckles around a mouthful of bread. His Witcher will keep him warm and fed and on the right side of drunk, plied and smiling with wine. They don’t need to talk at all. Jaskier has done enough talking throughout the past three seasons for the both of them. He’s happy to let his voice rest throughout the winter, though his lute could still whisper to him. A merry Eskel and Lambert might ask a song or two from him, but that will be it. For now, though, Jaskier sits happily across from his Witcher, their knees touching as they scoff down as much food as they’re able to.

* * *

The wind howls outside. Harsh rain lashes against the keep’s battlements and walls, but Kaer Morhen has weathered its fair share of storms throughout the centuries. The hearth crackles and spits and warmth blooms throughout the room. Jaskier sighs up at the ceiling, letting his eyes flicker closed. He could slip away into the soft and plush mattress. The sheets are slung lowly over the both of them, not needed for the moment now that the hearth’s fire has picked up. But Geralt still dozes by his side, resting his head on Jaskier’s shoulder and curling an arm around the bard’s middle.

Jaskier skims a hand over the Witcher’s back. He’s shed his shirt, leaving it somewhere outside of their bed. He has Jaskier to keep him warm, so why would he need it? And with a shirt on, he wouldn’t have been able to feel and lounge in the bard’s touch dusting over him. Jaskier’s fingers trail up and down the Witcher’s back, running over the ridges of his spine and across his shoulders. He can feel how heavy Geralt is getting, slowly sinking into sleep.

There have been only a handful of times where Geralt has let himself lower his guard like this. Out on the path, Geralt’s shoulders were always tense and his eyes continuously scanning crowds and rooms. Even when they slept, either out on the road underneath the stars or in tavern rooms, Geralt never ventured too deeply down. A slight creak of a floorboard or a twig snapping, and Geralt would have his sword in his hand and ready to strike within seconds.

Both of them indulge in the winter; Geralt with letting his shoulders drop and his hackles lower, and Jaskier watching his Witcher finally _relax_. The Continent can survive on its own for the season. Or the other Witchers can deal with it. One of Geralt’s brothers told him that the other schools don’t act like they do; their cubs and fledglings can traverse through the countryside if they want, but only the wolves return to their mountain religiously for the winter. And even then, Eskel told him that sometimes, when they’re short on coin or if the year had been particularly riddled with contracts, they’ll stay.

Jaskier’s fingers dust the ridges of Geralt’s spine, gently running over patches of marred skin and the bumps of scars. Long-since healed and beginning to fade, but there nonetheless. He loosens a sigh, turning his head just enough to dust a kiss to the crown of Geralt’s head. It’s nothing major; merely a brush of lips. He lingers, smelling bathing salts and oils. Underneath it all is the familiar scent of _Geralt_.

The Witcher hums, curling further into Jaskier’s chest. Full-bellied and pliant from a bath, he’s slipping. He’s growing heavier and heavier in Jaskier’s arms. It won’t be long until sleep stops skirting the shadows of the room and comes slinking out to lull him under. Jaskier won’t be long after. His eyelids grow heavier with each passing moment.

They’ll have chores in the following week. The keep has gone three seasons with just Vesemir looking after it; and though he’s loathe to admit it, he’s getting on in years and cannot see to everything. Cracks have formed in the mortar keeping the outer walls together, and the stones need to be re-pointed. But that’s next week. Jaskier reaches up to card his fingers through Geralt’s hair. He’ll have nothing to do with the heavier work. Eskel and Lambert and Geralt can deal with clambering up the high stone walls and keeping them in check. He’ll find something to do. He’s sure Vesemir has constructed a list as long as his arm to keep him busy for the season.

Until then—

Jaskier catches the blankets over their hips and tugs them up to their chests. Geralt burrows into him; the arm around the bard’s waist tightening and possessive. The candles around the room have long since quenched themselves. The only light and heat come blooming out of the hearth. It crackles and flickers, but it’s what they both end up falling asleep to. Geralt slips away first, soft snores rumbling out of his chest and blowing against Jaskier’s chest.

Jaskier’s arms will stay around his Witcher. They don’t part when they sleep. Jaskier can’t count how many times they’ve woken up entangled in each other, not knowing where one began and the other ended.

The warmth of the room and the soft bed beneath him and the Witcher coiled against his side; it’s too much of a fight to stay awake. But he wants to. He wants to watch his Witcher loosen and relax, but it’s not enough. Sleep tugs at him, luring him under. Just before he slips off, when his eyes flutter closed and his breath starts to deepen, he hears the soft, constant rhythm of his Witcher’s heartbeat: a silent assurance that they’re together and safe.

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr  
> yourqueenforayear (personal) || agoodgoddamnshot (writing)
> 
> twitter  
> @eyesupmarksman 
> 
> Kudos & Comments gladly appreciated! Happy holidays!


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